Chapter Text
Swish. CRACK!
Pain. Groan.
Close eyes,
breathe again.
Swish. CRACK!
It was like a sickening melody, swaying along to the rhythm of a knotted whip.
Pain. Groan.
Fog and thunder, warring against each other to befuddle his mind.
Close eyes.
The hot drips of fresh blood cooling against the scarred skin of his back.
Breathe again…
“Alright. Put him back in his cell.”
Dean let his eyelids flitter back open as relief eased his tense muscles, relaxing himself into the iron chains latched above his head. These new trainees must be low on the stamina side; the torture session was only for a few hours today. And not even some questioning. How lame.
The demon with the whip, Tanner, or maybe Terrence? Changed out Dean’s chains for handcuffs, demon binding ones of course, and manhandled him out the door, the other three guards striding behind them. Dean’s legs buckled in unwillingness and exhaustion; his left calf still ripped down the center from the “incident” yesterday. He stumbled, but was yanked back to his feet, Whip Demon cursing under his breath in annoyance.
Dean glanced subtly over to his guards’ faces, blinking away his own dizzied vision and taking in the impassive frustration that contorted their faces. Maybe this just wasn’t their thing. Maybe these newbies just didn’t appreciate the “art” of torturing like their master does. A shiver ran down his spine, threatening to buckle his legs again, but he quickly caught his step. Alastair. That bastard would cut you open and smile, like a connoisseur sipping two-hundred-year-old wine on a hot day. Sadist.
A few minutes later and Dean was being thrown head-long through his cell door, the demons snickering behind him. He tripped over his feet and fell smack into the back wall, slumping to a heap on the ground.
Oh well, at least he fell into a fairly comfortable position.
Dean rolled carefully over onto his stomach, shoulder muscles spiking with strain and tenderness, as he carefully lifted his tattered back away from the wall. There was bloody streaks left in its wake, the newly ripped skin leaving its mark.
A groan was building low in his throat, but his mind was already drifting as unconsciousness began reaching its soft tendrils out to him.
He should be concerned. He should.
By the whippings. By the torturing and the interrogations. By the fact that he was in a high-security demon prison. Or at the very least by the thought that he would probably never even see the sun again before he died.
But then again, he had given up caring a long time ago.
So no, he was not concerned by any of it.
He’d been numb for a very long time.
“Hello.”
Dean’s head jerked up, eyes wide and searching.
“Those guards do not seem to like you very much.”
Dean blinked his eyes into focus, landing on a shadowed figure in his cell. On the other side of his cell, back against the wall and head tilted in concern, was a Seraph. A blued-eyed, black-winged, “Angel of the Lord”, with bruises on his cheeks but white fire dancing beneath his skin.
“-Uhhh.”
“You appear to be injured.” The Seraphim spoke. His voice reaching Dean’s ears like a rolling thunder over far off mountains. Powerful, but softened.
“No duh, Sherlock.”
The angel blinked at him startled and Dean kicked himself for his lack of tact. But come on, where did this Bozo think he was anyways? Not the Hampton Inn & Suites, that’s for dang sure.
The green-eyed demon flicked his sharp tail and rolled his eyes. “Yes, I’m injured. Excellent diagnoses Doctor Sexy. Though I should probably give you a heads up that literally everyone who calls one of these petri dished cells home is ‘injured’. Its part of the rent payment for this joint.”
The angel opened his mouth for a moment before snapping it shut with a click. Then his brow scrunch in confusion. “I am not a physician. And I do not go by the surname, ‘Sexy’. I believe you have my identity mistaken. I am an angel, Seraphim class, and a captain of my battalion. My name is Castiel.”
Dean groaned and laid his head back on the concrete floor, appreciating the coolness against his cheek, especially with his back still feeling heated and burning. “Congratulations,” he mumbled into the ground.
Castiel didn’t seem to know how to respond to that, cocking his head to the side and frowning. After a few seconds he shifted to standing and walked over to Dean’s curled-inward form. His eyes traveled the length of Dean’s body, slowly, meticulously. Honestly, Dean found it a little creepy to be honest. The dude was crowding his personal space and he felt…exposed.
“Back it up Cas, I ain’t in the mood to perform right now. Especially since you haven’t bought me dinner yet.”
Cas blinked. “You are shivering.” He crouched down near Dean’s head and place a calloused hand against his forehead, eyes squinting in concentration. “You have a fever. But your wounds are fresh, how can they already be infected?”
The other man huffed and slapped the angel’s hand away. “Cause they’re not all fresh, genius. Now buzz off, I want to sleep.”
“I am not a bee, demon. I cannot bu-“
“Sleep. Cas. Quiet. Please.”
His calf felt like it was burning from the inside and his back was raw and had strips of skin coming off in peels. There was dried blood everywhere, he had injuries all over his body, and the last thing he wanted was some Seraph to be playing triage on him right now. Besides, he thought, with how muffled his head was feeling right now, he probably did have a fever and he really just wanted to sleep it off.
Out of sight out of mind. If he didn’t think about how much of a mess he was, then he wouldn’t feel it. At least, that had always been his motto. Not that it worked very often, but he gave it his best shot.
Freaking angel. He just wanted to be left alone.
But no. The demons had to give him a cellmate. Oh joy.
Whatever. Sleep now. Cellmate later.
Cas watched as Dean’s bloodshot eyes slipped closed, his body still shivering slightly as it relaxed into unconsciousness. Cas frowned down at him. “You appear to be a very stubborn demon.”
When he received no reply except the stuttering breaths of the man beneath him, Cas settled himself into a seated position, back straight against the wall nearby. And he watched.
His cellmate was a demon. That had certainly not been what he’d expected when he had been tossed in here an hour ago and told that his “roommate” would join him shortly. This was a prison meant for Abbadon’s most dangerous prisoners.
It made sense that Cas had been taken here after capture. He was a Captain in Heaven’s army, and held valuable information that would benefit Abbadon greatly, provided she could pry it out of him. In addition, he was known as one of the most competent strategists in Heaven’s group of officers. But-
He glanced back over to the slightly malnourished figure laying quiet beside him.
But this was prison run by demons…. So why was a demon being held prisoner inside?